Untitled
by HouseRulesSammy
Summary: John/Mary AU. No real summary, the story kind of explains itself. Rated M for non-descriptive things just to be safe.


He's gone to the old house on a whim, just for the thought of being able to relive the memories. He doesn't know what possesses him to do it, but he raises his hand to knock on the door, hoping for an answer. John's first thought when he sees her looking like that is that she's some sort of shape-shifter sent to make his newly found life even more of a Hell. He's got a silver knife at the ready, but she's quicker; she has him pinned to the wall before his mind even registers that she's moving, her own silver knife poised at his throat. He knows instantly that this is his wife — no shape-shifter, no matter how skilled they may be, could possibly counter his ass so quickly. Which, honestly, isn't necessarily a good thing at this moment. His hand moves up to wrap around her wrist, and he gives it a slight squeeze. "Mary," her name leaves him in a slight breath, and he sees her expression falter for a moment.

"You're dead," she says after a long, uncomfortable silence in which neither of them move. The blade of the knife is pressing a little too hard into his skin, causing a trickle of blood, but he's too occupied by studying her face to make a move to wipe it up. He hasn't seen her like this in a long time — he hasn't seenher herself in a long time, but this is a completely new meaning to that. She's young, fresh-looking like back when they were just starting out. He's always thought of her as beautiful, but seeing her like this, untouched by age and childbirth, he feels like it's a complete new start for them…. if she'd get the knife away from his throat.

"So are you," he replies after a moment, and Mary's eyes soften slightly; it's a look of understanding, he believes, and she lowers the knife and takes a step back, but the hand he has on her wrist keeps her close to him. "For over twenty years. You know that, don't you?"

"Dean told me. He said I should be, but.. How could I have been dead that long? I remember everything that happened with the boys as they were growing up, John. How could I have been dead at all?" Mary's voice is slightly; it's the tone she uses when she's a combination of confused and upset, and John's chest clenches at the sound.

"You weren't," he says, brushing his thumb against her skin, "You died in Sam's nursery when he was just a baby… in a fire." He leaves the other parts unsaid — there will be time for those once everything is cleared up.

"They told me you were killed by the demon. How… how are you here?" Her hand moves to take his, and their fingers intertwine in a familiar way.

"I don't know." The answer is honest; he really has no idea as to how he's alive. He'll have to investigate this, find out what's brought him and Mary back… and why as his older self when she's back in her twenties. Not that he's really complaining, of course.

Mary simply nods at that, and then her arms are around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It doesn't seem to matter that moments ago they'd not trusted each other, that he's still covered in various means of filth, or that there's quite a noticeable age gap now; what does matter is the complete familiarity in the situation; how her lips move against his, how her body feels when she presses into him slightly. A soft, barely audible sigh leaves her lips as she pulls back from the kiss, eyes glistening as she raises them to meet his. "I've missed you," she breathes, before their lips meet again.

It doesn't take long before they're manoeuvring their way out of the hall, towards the living room; bed isn't an option, there are far too many stairs for them. They fall on the couch in a tangled of limbs, and John's briefly reminded of the first time they made love. Their lips lock once more, hands tugging at clothes and carding through hair. It doesn't last terribly long, but that doesn't matter; John's happy to have Mary in his arms, her warmth against him, and he can only hope she feels the same.

As they lay in the hazy aftermath, her head against his chest, fingers moving up to brush against his jawline, John realises this is one of the things he's missed the most. He's missed everything, of course, but the list is so long he's sure he'd bore her if he tried reciting it. He lets out a heavy sigh, lips brushing against her forehead as he murmurs a simple "I've missed you, too."


End file.
